Angie is a middle-aged drug dealer, who fulfills the masochistic fantasies of young student David. David shares a residence with lonely log company worker Tony. Other characters - Angie's roommate Nancy, Angie's son Ethan and her old mother Abbie are also very lonely and desperate for human communication.

Jade是一个被硫酸烧伤的年轻妈妈——她的脸在完成了重建手术之后还是留下了难以消除的疤痕，经历了内心的崩溃和人际关系的破裂后，她采取了比较极端的方式试图挽回曾经正常的生活。

The monster, which looks like a nastier version of "The Creature from the Black Lagoon," invades a sleepy lighthouse town. The superstitious lighthouse keeper is worried for the safety of his beautiful teenage daughter, so he leaves food for the monster, who dwells in a nearby cave. When bodies wash up ashore, the locals take notice.

The monster, which looks like a nastier version of "The Creature from the Black Lagoon," invades a sleepy lighthouse town. The superstitious lighthouse keeper is worried for the safety of his beautiful teenage daughter, so he leaves food for the monster, who dwells in a nearby cave. When bodies wash up ashore, the locals take notice.

If nothing else, this is the only Sex Pistols film (there are now at least 3) to make explicit and in-depth reference to the band members' working class roots, and the way that experience informed their project. This alone makes the film worth seeing, as it explodes the myth, fostered no doubt by their PT Barnum manager, Malcolm McLaren, that the whole project was an exercise in cynical nihilism and money grubbing. As the band members tell it, nothing could have been further from the truth. I believe them. 　　The film is cobbled together in large part from 2 previous Sex Pistols documentaries, "Rock 'n' Roll Swindle," (a McLaren project also directed, ironically enough, by F&F director Julie Temple) and "D.O.A," plus clips from BBS television and elsewhere that try to locate the Pistols in the political and social climate that spawned them. This effort, to give the Pistols a historical context, is by far the most valuable part of the film for those trying to understand how a bunch of working class stiffs, who could barely play their instruments, and who only released one album, could set off an explosion that reverberates in the music world--if increasingly faintly--even today. 　　Best part of the film: footage from their last, secret gig at a palace in a working class district (they had been banned from appearing anywhere in England) before embarking on their ill-fated US tour. It consists of two performance on Christmas Day, benefiting the families of striking local firefighters, who had been out of work for many months. The attendees consist of the local lads and lasses, none of whom are "punk" in any apparent sense of the term. 　　Before the Pistols performed, everyone eats Sex Pistols cake and ice cream; "Never Mind the Bollocks" shirts are stretched over the pubescent bodies of every bobby soxer. Then, after a thank you from the emcee, the Pistols launch into the searing "Bodies," its sarcastic refrain sung from the point of view of an aborted fetus ("I'm not an animal!/I'm an abortion..."). All the boppers dance like it's a sock hop, with the difference that everyone gleefully throws leftover desserts at one another. Steve Jones is shown playing guitar with his face covered in cake icing, beaming. In his reminiscence about the gig, Rotten grows wistful, saying it was easily their best memory as a band, and the last good one before it all fell apart. 　　I never knew the guys were such sentimentalists. 　　It's hard to believe that there once was a time when rock music could actually matter, when it was possible to actually escape the commodified rebellion that now sells Budweiser, Nike, and SUVs, when it was possible, however briefly to scare the pants of the political establishment. Young pop music lovers who swallow the meretricious rebellion of rap or grunge--whose self-important lyrics and idiotically monotonous rhythms make their authors rich off the weekly allowances of white middle class kids whose idea of rebellion is big loud subwoofers in the Corolla Daddy bought them for their 16th birthday--might profit from getting a glimpse of the Real Thing. 　　The rest of us, who were lucky enough to have been there when history was made, and who can still recall the opening chords of "Anarchy in the UK" blasting all traces of "More Than a Feeling" and "Take It Easy" out of our speakers cabinets and into the first circle of music Hell where they always belonged, can enjoy the film for what it teaches us about the power of ordinary, thoroughly obnoxious people to make their own history, and ours.

If nothing else, this is the only Sex Pistols film (there are now at least 3) to make explicit and in-depth reference to the band members' working class roots, and the way that experience informed their project. This alone makes the film worth seeing, as it explodes the myth, fostered no doubt by their PT Barnum manager, Malcolm McLaren, that the whole project was an exercise in cynical nihilism and money grubbing. As the band members tell it, nothing could have been further from the truth. I believe them. 　　The film is cobbled together in large part from 2 previous Sex Pistols documentaries, "Rock 'n' Roll Swindle," (a McLaren project also directed, ironically enough, by F&F director Julie Temple) and "D.O.A," plus clips from BBS television and elsewhere that try to locate the Pistols in the political and social climate that spawned them. This effort, to give the Pistols a historical context, is by far the most valuable part of the film for those trying to understand how a bunch of working class stiffs, who could barely play their instruments, and who only released one album, could set off an explosion that reverberates in the music world--if increasingly faintly--even today. 　　Best part of the film: footage from their last, secret gig at a palace in a working class district (they had been banned from appearing anywhere in England) before embarking on their ill-fated US tour. It consists of two performance on Christmas Day, benefiting the families of striking local firefighters, who had been out of work for many months. The attendees consist of the local lads and lasses, none of whom are "punk" in any apparent sense of the term. 　　Before the Pistols performed, everyone eats Sex Pistols cake and ice cream; "Never Mind the Bollocks" shirts are stretched over the pubescent bodies of every bobby soxer. Then, after a thank you from the emcee, the Pistols launch into the searing "Bodies," its sarcastic refrain sung from the point of view of an aborted fetus ("I'm not an animal!/I'm an abortion..."). All the boppers dance like it's a sock hop, with the difference that everyone gleefully throws leftover desserts at one another. Steve Jones is shown playing guitar with his face covered in cake icing, beaming. In his reminiscence about the gig, Rotten grows wistful, saying it was easily their best memory as a band, and the last good one before it all fell apart. 　　I never knew the guys were such sentimentalists. 　　It's hard to believe that there once was a time when rock music could actually matter, when it was possible to actually escape the commodified rebellion that now sells Budweiser, Nike, and SUVs, when it was possible, however briefly to scare the pants of the political establishment. Young pop music lovers who swallow the meretricious rebellion of rap or grunge--whose self-important lyrics and idiotically monotonous rhythms make their authors rich off the weekly allowances of white middle class kids whose idea of rebellion is big loud subwoofers in the Corolla Daddy bought them for their 16th birthday--might profit from getting a glimpse of the Real Thing. 　　The rest of us, who were lucky enough to have been there when history was made, and who can still recall the opening chords of "Anarchy in the UK" blasting all traces of "More Than a Feeling" and "Take It Easy" out of our speakers cabinets and into the first circle of music Hell where they always belonged, can enjoy the film for what it teaches us about the power of ordinary, thoroughly obnoxious people to make their own history, and ours.

2003年的北京，赵小桃坐在单轨列车上给过去的男朋友打电话，声称要去印度。小桃的前男友则告诉小桃自己要去乌兰巴托。而实际上，赵小桃所说的印度是北京世界公园微缩景点中的印度，她那里为游人跳舞表演。前男友要去的乌兰巴托则比北京更往北的蒙古国的首都。二人约着相见，一起吃饭，小饭馆里烟雾弥漫，似乎能掩饰这种告别的忧伤。赵小桃又坐在单轨列车上给现在的男朋友成太生打电话，她说她想见他。成太生是世界公园的保安队长，正在微缩的艾菲尔铁塔上执勤。赵小桃与成太生都来自外地，住在公园里，一起工作、吃饭、游荡、……他们在这座城市里幻想、相爱、争吵、和解。北京城喧嚣的噪音，让人兴奋或是沉默。在这座布满微缩景观的公园内，从金字塔到曼哈顿只需十秒钟，世界其实就是角落。

2003年的北京，赵小桃坐在单轨列车上给过去的男朋友打电话，声称要去印度。小桃的前男友则告诉小桃自己要去乌兰巴托。而实际上，赵小桃所说的印度是北京世界公园微缩景点中的印度，她那里为游人跳舞表演。前男友要去的乌兰巴托则比北京更往北的蒙古国的首都。二人约着相见，一起吃饭，小饭馆里烟雾弥漫，似乎能掩饰这种告别的忧伤。赵小桃又坐在单轨列车上给现在的男朋友成太生打电话，她说她想见他。成太生是世界公园的保安队长，正在微缩的艾菲尔铁塔上执勤。赵小桃与成太生都来自外地，住在公园里，一起工作、吃饭、游荡、……他们在这座城市里幻想、相爱、争吵、和解。北京城喧嚣的噪音，让人兴奋或是沉默。在这座布满微缩景观的公园内，从金字塔到曼哈顿只需十秒钟，世界其实就是角落。

南派三叔“精神病院系列”悬疑启幕！落魄作家搭档鬼马少女，求索世界真相深陷连环死局。诡谲病院、封闭工厂、孤岛囚笼，深渊绝地中他们能否逃出生天，求得谜底？

南派三叔“精神病院系列”悬疑启幕！落魄作家搭档鬼马少女，求索世界真相深陷连环死局。诡谲病院、封闭工厂、孤岛囚笼，深渊绝地中他们能否逃出生天，求得谜底？